


Dr. Watson's Flatmate and the Heart of the Matter

by BakerTumblings



Series: Dr. Watson's Flatmate [4]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Big Brother Mycroft, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, John Watson is an Intensivist, John and Sherlock can both act like smart-arses, John's administrative assistant has a very creative side, Johnlock Fluff, M/M, Medical, Mycroft Whump, cardiac catheterization with stents, definitely not "just a nurse", echocardiogram, myocardial infarction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-20
Updated: 2015-09-20
Packaged: 2018-04-20 20:06:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4800551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A high stress, high profile job can lead to significant health issues.  John and Sherlock receive an early morning phone call that Mycroft has had a heart attack. </p><p> Yup.  Mummy Holmes was right that one Christmas gathering.  They should definitely have stopped smoking.</p><p>++</p><p>This is a continuation of Dr. Watson's flatmate, a series that finds Dr. John Watson hired at the suggestion of Mike Stamford at the hospital as an intensivist, where he meets and discovers an entertaining and satisfying relationship with consulting detective Sherlock Holmes.  They have moved in together, and have shared some crazy adventures already.  And... they are just getting started.  This story would stand well enough on it's own.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dr. Watson's Flatmate and the Heart of the Matter

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TyndallBlue](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TyndallBlue/gifts), [ds862](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ds862/gifts).



The phone ringing in the middle of the night is never an encouraging sound, but John reaches for his mobile as Sherlock moans a bit and rolls over, his arm sliding warmly around John's waist, where his pyjamas have slid down.  Even in the dim stages of barely awakening, Sherlock's hand slides along the softly furred line of John's belly, resting gently on the elastic waistband.  John notes with bleary eyes the caller ID of the hospital, of course, _who else would bloody call him_ in the wee hours, and pokes his bare feet onto the carpeted floor of their flat at 221B.

"Dr. Watson," he intones quietly, rubbing tired fingers through his likely all-over-the-place blond hair and begins to head for the hallway in order to disturb Sherlock the least amount possible.  Instead of actually exiting the bedroom, though, he stays very still at first, listening as the A&E physician begins a brief summary involving a patient within the last hour.  Finally, John swallows hard and asks, "And they're in the cath lab now?"  Pause.  "Any instability?"  Then, "Who's doing him?"  He listened a few more moments, hit the home button ending the call.  He touches Sherlock's leg,  "Hey, get up.  Mycroft's had an MI, a heart attack," he clarifies.  "He's in the cath lab now."

Sherlock rose up on a long arm, hair wildly curly and untamed and glorious, his blue eyes blinking in slow motion as he processes John's words.

In silence, they pull on clothes, quickly, and Sherlock follows John down the hall to the door.  John shoulders his bag as they leave, reflexively.  At Sherlock's questioning glance, John shrugs, saying, "Save a trip back later, if I'm keeping my shift."  He touches Sherlock's arm as they stand by the door.  "He'll be okay."  John is not completely sure whom he is reassuring with that statement.

The cab ride is the quickest ever that time of night, barely four am, and John strides confidently through the A&E doors, sliding his name badge on to prevent any remote delay as they wind hallways and doorways to the waiting room of the cardiac cath lab.  At these off-hours, the waiting room is dark and deserted.  John punches the access code to the observation room of one of the labs, and when Sherlock moves to follow, John halts him.  

"He's _my_ brother."

"But they are less likely to throw _me_ out.  Let me scope it out first."  Sherlock finally looks nervous, and John can see his jaw clench.  "I'll be right back."

There is a tightness to the set of Sherlock's eyes and face as he unhappily tilts his head and takes a step back.  John disappears into the depths of the fortress, leaving Sherlock barricaded in the waiting room.  He glances around at the abysmal decor, wonders at the families who have waited here, staring at ugly furniture, institutional wall-coverings, drinking terrible coffee, and trying not to panic at the bad news that was inevitably relayed.  There is a folded-up newspaper, a used paper coffee cup with bright lipstick on the edge, and a shopping list abandoned on one of the corner tables.  Sherlock considers several things - the family the detritus represented and the housekeeping staff who cut the corner on assigned tasks.  It is only a brief respite from the worry in his mind.

As a member of the Med Exec board, Sherlock knows that the cardiology services are safe, effective, research based, and life-saving.  But he feels his breath catch with the proximity of the patient personally, the sentiment that attaches him to caring more about outcomes and less about procedural elements.  Unable to sit, too restless, he assures himself, _normal_ , he stares at the door John had disappeared through minutes previously.  There are no vibes, no deductions, no sense of impending _anything_.

Sherlock stands, hands in his coat pockets, trying to remember the last time he'd even seen Mycroft for anything beyond the inane prattle he was good at, or the astounding way they could give each other grief, or anything beyond the political and social obligations that seemed to dictate his brother's life.  His shoulders are tense, and he makes a conscious effort to exhale, relax, and trust the medical professionals working.  Minutes drag on, and he finally realises his legs are getting tired, lowers his tall frame into an uncomfortable, upholstered chair.  Desperately, innately, he wishes for a cigarette, wants the stress relieving, nicotine-delivering rush of air in his lungs that makes his head tingle and his skin slightly less sensitive.  He craves the exhalation through pursed lips of a thin puff of gray smoke, of the vasoconstriction that accompanies the tobacco, the faint rush of nicotine crossing the blood-brain barrier.  He checks his pocket for a nicotine patch, finds none.

And then John pushes open the door to the waiting room, and Sherlock stands up, gauges John's face, and instantly knows several things right away:  Mycroft is not dead, but he is critical, and it will be some time before he is allowed at the bedside.  All of this, just from the set of John's eyes.

"Who knew, your brother actually _has_ a heart."  John says lightly as he approaches, touches his arm, his eyes conveying more than the words, for now.  "Big heart attack, three stents, drug-eluting.  They're finishing up."

"English, please."

"Ruptured a plaque down the main vessel that supplies much of the heart muscle, the right coronary artery.  Needed a stent, a lattice-work hollow frame that gets put in and opened, to restore blood flow, in three separate blockages.  Stents're coated with a drug that assures patency, so it stays open.  It's good."

"Good."  Sherlock couldn't help but simply repeat the word that seemed opposite of what John was saying.

"Better than needing bypass."  John swung the bag off his shoulder, set it on one of the chairs.  "Open heart surgery would have been riskier."

"Is he awake?"

"Actually," John began, eyeing up Sherlock's stress level by the clench of his fists at his side and the tap of his shoe on the industrial grade neutral carpet, "he arrived awake of course, asked if I was working, then... had some rhythm problems in the A&E, ended up intubated there, so it'll be a bit before he's talking.  It's why they called me and not you."  Sherlock recognises enough from the multiple medical discussions they'd had over the years to know rhythm problems likely meant defibrillation for a lethal arrhythmia, and the ventilator he was connected to meant hours before being awake enough to have a conversation.

"The rest, please."  Sherlock may not have the medical degree or been privy to what transpired within the depths of the cath lab, but he knows when John is withholding.

"Time will tell," John says.  "Big heart attack, big area, potentially.  The muscle is almost always stunned for hours up to a few days afterward, so the pumping function is impaired.  The hope is, by reperfusing -" and as he drops the word, he makes sure Sherlock nods, is keeping up, "- the area, that the muscle will recover."  When John can tell that Sherlock is handling the information well, he continues.  "And he may have vomited when they put the breathing tube down, not uncommon.  We'll watch for aspiration pneumonia."  

Big blue eyes blink a few times, and John can see many things being processed behind the rather stoic expression.  "Okay.  I want to see him."

John was nodding.  "I figured you might.  They'll be moving him to ICU soon, we'll tag along in the hallway.  Be aware, he will have a lot of tubes, though.  IVs, monitors, endotracheal tube, urinary catheter."

"Fine.  Great photo op, then.  For his refrigerator, to keep him out of the cheesecake and creme brulee."

The giggle was quiet, but needed.  John rolls his eyes.  "Just don't be too obvious with the camera."

++

The trip down the hall, in John's opinion, proceeds splendidly.  The anesthesiologist manages the airway, the nurses monitor heart rhythm, and the interventionalist on call follows the bed, discussing the beautiful restoration of TIMI-3 flow, while the technician guides the bed.  John engages a bit until Sherlock clears his throat and John suspends conversation.  He introduces the men, the physician to the next-of-kin, noting the familial ties, and the doctor nods.  John feels a bit relieved when Sherlock has been included in the update and is feeling more integral in the situation.

The ICU room is familiar to both John and Sherlock except that they both have a hard time with the flurry of activity centering around Mycroft's instability.  Because as soon as they'd settled ventilator, monitors, IV pumps, and assessed lines and wires, the high-pitched, red alarm sounded.  John and the nurses glance at the monitor to find runs and bursts of wide-complex tachycardia.  As John watched, really a spectator here at the bedside, the monitor vacillated between a perfusing rhythm with a pulse and some aberrant ventricular arrhythmia.  John's counterpart, one of the other intensivists covering last-minute for him, appears at the door, watching both the patient and the monitor with keen eyes.  He is quiet, in part because all the right things are already being done; there is nothing to add yet.  The interventionalist hadn't been far away, and soon John notes him standing at his elbow, too, watching the monitor and waiting for the blood pressure to cycle.  Mycroft's color is gray under flesh tones, and another nurse arrives outside the doorway bearing the crash cart to have at the ready if needed.

"His mag was normal?" John asked the doc, knowing hypomagnesemia can precipitate ventricular arrhythmias.

"Yup, 1.9.  The rest of his lytes were not terrible either."

"Reperfusion, then, I guess."

"Yeah, I know," the doc says, "just unnerving to watch.  I was hoping not to need to place a balloon pump.  The amiodarone will kick in soon, we bolused at the end of the case, they're hanging an infusion," he said, watching the activity in the room.  Sherlock's foot touches John's, then, a reminder of his presence and inquiring mind.  And a desire to be included.  John realizes he needs to be careful, or the inner toddler in Sherlock is going to show himself having a puerile tantrum and stomping about in childish delight in order to get some attention.

"Blood work is okay," John says quietly as they silence the alarm again, absolutely hating the skin color of the patient and recognising the low cardiac output without having to be told.  "There's medicine to bring the heart rhythm in control.  Sometimes when the muscle is damaged, there is actual further injury when blood flow is restored again."

"Free radicals," Sherlock adds, reminding them all that, while he may not speak their language entirely, he knows more than they seem to credit him with.  "Lactic acid?"

"Right," the interventionalist chips in then, "so this is perhaps a good sign, that the muscle was damaged but is now better off with increased blood flow.  Reperfusion arrhythmias are sometimes, _often actually_ , a good sign."

John watches Sherlock's face, decides to continue, "It's like when you sit on your foot too long, it bloody hurts like hell when you stand up."  That seems to alleviate some of Sherlock's questions as he processes the pathophysiology of the situation, watching his brother, motionless.

One of the nurses brings the ECG machine, hooks up Mycroft deftly, runs both 12-lead and rhythm strip as the complexes on the monitor continue to change.  She hands the print-strip to the interventionalist.  "Big inferior MI, look at those STs," he says to John, who, leaning in to look, blows out an impressed breath.

Sherlock is smug at the word inferior, commenting to everyone in the room that of course it's inferior, look at the source, and that he will need that in writing please, just to prove his point.

Over the next few minutes, antiarrhythmic infusing steadily, the ectopy decreased, replaced with mostly normal sinus rhythm, and the cluster of staff waiting for something bad to happen dissipates.  John drags a chair closer with his foot, pushes Sherlock into it.  "Sit, he's ok, things are better."  When Sherlock looks skeptical, John adds, "His color is a little better."

"His color looks the same."

"It's better, there's pink under the gray.  Trust me."  Sherlock looks doubtful still, but perches on the chair.  "I'll be right back."

'Right back' in medical speak of course, can mean a lot of things, and John is almost an hour before he returns, having touched base regarding a few outstanding patient concerns from yesterday's ICU and CVICU patients.  John, as lead intensivist, prefers to keep close tabs on census, scheduling, and patient issues that arise.  

When he came back, Sherlock was on his mobile, probably doing research on a link between inferior MIs and the inferiority label he was already planning to bestow on Mycroft when he awakened.  For all John could presume, Sherlock was probably already designing and ordering Tee shirts.

 John pulls a granola bar and bottle of water out of his deep pockets that he'd brought from his office, hands them over as he sits down, finally takes a deep breath.

"Isn't his heart rate a little slow?" Sherlock is alternating between watching the ventilator, the patient, and the monitor.  He avoids even a glance at the wrist restraints or the drip of urine into the urimeter hanging on the underside of the bedframe.

The nurse had followed John in, keeping an ever close eye on Mycroft.  And probably, John knew, his unpredictable brother too.  They exchange a glance, and when John is silent, the nurse speaks up.  "Slow is good.  The heart muscle gets all its blood flow in between beats or contractions, when the ventricle is relaxed."

"Diastole," Sherlock supplies.

"Exactly," she says with a smile as John hides a grin behind his hand rubbing his jaw.  "So if we slow the heart rate down with medications, that lengthens diastole, the relaxation phase, and the muscle actually has the chance for better perfusion and blood flow.  Does that make sense?  You could ask for a more technical explanation from John, I'm sure."

"No, that was helpful.  So isn't his blood pressure too low, then, to perfuse the muscle adequately?" Sherlock nods at the monitor, where Mycroft's vital signs are displayed.  "91/40.  He's probably much higher than that usually."

The nurse again looked over at John, who gestured back at her for the explanation, and when she gestured in return, John snickered, muttering under his breath, "He tunes me out, you see.  And I've heard you do this bit before, it's _good_."

She smiles, turns back to Sherlock.  "Okay, so if you think of a closed heart valve in front of the left ventricle, where blood has to pump to the rest of the body, it has to squeeze hard against the valve to open it and force blood out."  She waits for Sherlock to nod.  "What's pushing back on the valve is his blood pressure.  So if the systolic blood pressure is, say, 130, the ventricle has to squeeze to at least 131 to push open the valve.  The ventricle has to work pretty hard for that, right?"  He nods again, watching the monitor a few minutes as something alarmed and then went away.  "If we lower the blood pressure, with medications or stress reduction, even, the ventricle has to work less hard, against less resistance, in order to open the valve.  So if his systolic is 91..."

"The ventricle only has to squeeze to 92 or so."

John nods as the nurse is called from the room to answer a page, checking first that Mycroft was essentially stable for the moment.  He speaks, then, "So those two factors in combination, increased coronary perfusion and decreased left ventricular stroke work, help the heart rest, heal, recover after a heart attack."

"They talked last month in Med Exec about beta blocker compliance on the MI critical pathway.  Or ARB therapy, I don't recall."

"Right.  That's why it's key that patients take their meds."

"Oh, I'm sure he'll take his meds.  With scotch followed by three cigarettes."

"He's quitting."  John leveled an eye at him.  "And so are you, completely.  Congratulations."

 Over the next couple of hours, things look a little better.  Vital signs are stable, his color is actually pink, the radial artery puncture site is dry and the external closure device is removed.  Mycroft is weaned from the blessed amnesia of propofol, and Sherlock actually has to step out, unable to watch the uncomfortable wakefulness, discomfort, and inability to communicate that accompanies ventilator weaning as Mycroft gestured and tried to mouth words around the endotracheal tube and became frustrated when the nurses suctioned him and assured him he was doing splendidly.  John stepped closer to Mycroft's ear while Sherlock watched from the hallway, and he told Mycroft, quietly, to shut the hell up, Britain would survive without him yammering on for a damn day.  After the words come out, John wonders, too late, how much Mycroft might actually remember of the weaning and the words.  He cast a glance at Sherlock, hoping beyond measure that nothing had been recorded on the phone to come back to haunt him.  Anyway, it worked for whatever reason, and the patient seems a bit more cooperative and, while still wide awake and unhappy, compliant.

When the respiratory therapist arrives with the blood gas results and tells John that the intensivist okayed the extubation, John steps out into the hallway to find Sherlock staring unseeing out the window.  He steps to his side, "They're ready to take the tube out.  It'll be a few minutes to get him sorted."  Sherlock's eyes were troubled as he looked back at the closed curtain, but John continues, "We have time to get coffee."

They leave the ICU and wander wordlessly to the cafeteria, where they procure tea instead and carry it to the waiting room.  "That's terrible to watch," Sherlock finally states.

"It is," John agrees, knowing the brothers may act irritable with each other, but there is a connection that only they understand, that they show concern in unusual ways.

"He's never been ill.  Never been..." his sentence trails off, and John watches Sherlock swallow a bit hard, tea still untouched.

"He'll be okay."

"I suppose."

"He may have been ignoring some things that he shouldn't have, however."

Sherlock turned a questioning expression toward John.

"He waited too long to come to the hospital, sounds like, and then bloody drove himself in."

"So?"

"Well, driving was idiotic.  If something had happened while he was behind the wheel, he could have killed himself and anyone he'd hit.  Plus, the longer it takes to get medical intervention, to open the coronary vessel back up and get blood flow restored, the more damage can be done."

 "How do you know he waited?"

"History, mostly.  But his blood results, the troponins, the cardiac enzymes released by damaged myocardium?"  Sherlock nodded.  "They were already markedly elevated in the A&E.  He probably had the heart attack at home."

"He's a rather stubborn idiot."

"Good thing you're nothing like him, eh?"  

Finally, John nods at the beverage in Sherlock's hand.  "Enjoy.  They'll let you back in shortly, I'm sure."  When Sherlock is pensive, John continues, "Waiting long can be bad, but in his case, they got the vessels open and got good flow.  The breathing tube'll come out, and he'll be ordering people around in no time."

"Back to his annoying self."  The smile Sherlock bestows, gratefully, is gentle.  John stands close and slides a warm hand into Sherlock's hair there in the waiting room, where they stand just the two of them, touching and caressing and drawing comfort in the solid touches.  It seems to relax them both.  "Back to work again?"

"I should check in, yes.  They're covering me a bit, so let me help and I'll be back soon.  Text me?"

++

A few hours later, Mycroft is out of bed, sitting in a chair, his radial artery cath site with a clear dressing over stark white gauze.  He is demanding in a raspy voice that someone bring him his bloody laptop, or locate his mobile.  John arrives on scene, summoned by a short text from Sherlock requesting that his bloody git of a sibling be immediately reintubated, sedated, and strung up.

"Mycroft," John said, casually, calmly.  "Nice to see you out of bed, and breathing."

"You can stop breathing anytime," Sherlock snarls.

"Dr. Watson.  Your mobile please."

"Um, yeah, no, I don't think so."  John drawls, as he glances at the monitor, finds things mostly stable, continues, "Tonight you rest.  Tomorrow?   _We'll see_."

"Where is Anthea?"  He looks at John's pockets, Sherlock's pockets, knowing their communication devices are out of his grasp.  One of the nurses pokes her head in, obviously having already witnessed their antics and coming to lend support and referee, if it comes to that.

"Dr. Watson here can make your evening rather miserable if you keep being obstinate," she says.  Mycroft glares, an icy expression that has John wondering if he is considering whether or not he can get away with beheading.  She chuckles at his menacing face.  "You don't frighten me, by the way.  Compromise?  Give me Anthea's number.  I will call her, and ask her to come by _in the morning_ with your little things."

Sherlock is ready to escalate, he is that frustrated, and he springboards off her comment.   John could almost cringe when he says, "And then they'll yank that catheter out of your other _little thing_...   _God_ ," he hisses, "you're ridiculous.  Bloody heart attack and all you're on about is your technology and what you can't do and how miserable you are."  The attention, including Mycroft's, is on him in his vigorous tirade, fraught with emotion but not yelling; somehow, John finds that more powerful than high volume.  "These people saved your ungrateful arse today.  Why don't you just fucking follow directions and do what you're told for once?"  And with that, Sherlock leaves the room in a flare of coat and a toss of curls.

John and Mycroft individually ponder the last time _Sherlock_ actually followed directions on his own accord, and both wisely stay silent on that matter.

The nurse senses a _moment_ for John and leaves too, leaving just John and Mycroft.  John stands up, gingerly, slides the glass door closed and shuts the curtain.  Mycroft is a bit wide-eyed, watching curiously and cautiously from the chair.  John glances at heart rate - controlled - and blood pressure - stable - before speaking.

"I know you two are brighter than average, too smart for your collective good if you ask me.  You know he's been rather worried today, don't you?"  Mycroft's lips pursed, eyes narrowed, and John gave him the benefit of the doubt and considered that an affirmative.  "You were a bit touch and go for a while.  Unstable, if you will."  Mycroft's pale eyes stared back.  "He's concerned about you."  John finds the other chair convenient, perches on the edge, eye level with this difficult person he inherited by default as he lived with and loved this man's volatile sibling.  "He may show it peculiarly, and of course your heart attack affects you primarily, but those of us on the periphery are concerned, too.  You've been given a second chance, you know."

Mycroft is silent, his eyes just taking in all of John Watson, his words, his expression.

"You know, the bloody breathing tube was down, you wouldn't shut up, trying to talk a blue streak around it, as if you could."  Sitting back, John worked at the casual pose.  "And now, nothing?  Oh, come on, you can do better than that."

"Did you really tell me to shut the hell up earlier today, that Britain wouldn't fall, or did I dream it?"

John replies so fast that it could only be a lie.  "You dreamed it.  You were sedated.  Heavily sedated.  I would never say that to a patient."  Mycroft's eyes are a bit more lively, and in the silence the tension eases and the men seem to have relaxed.  "I would also never tell you to sit down and shut up and stop being a ridiculous arse."  There is a smirk to the side of Mycroft's face.  "I will say that you need to take charge of your health, though.  I will, in turn, take charge of your fluffy headed brother, take him home, and take him apart for yelling at you."

"Thank you, John.  For all of it."  There is eye contact that borders on extremely uncomfortable.  "I don't especially want to say good night to him, either.  Take him home."

John nods, moves to the doorway, well out of reach.  "By the way, I have your mobile in my pocket.  I've had it since you were in the cath lab.  I called Anthea and gave her the next few days off.  She sends her regards."  The slight raise of John's eyebrow at Mycroft's murderous expression held for a few moments, as the silence hung between them.  "I will bring your mobile back in the morning.  If you behave overnight."

 Mycroft is quiet, and John nods in farewell, stepping to the door to pull back the curtain and exit the room.  Sherlock's stormy presence is at the door, nose to nose with John, who touches him on the arm, saying, "We're leaving.  Say goodnight _nicely_ if you wish."

The brothers snip and fuss at each other for a few, shallow comments, typical banter, but finally John and Sherlock step from the unit.  John can feel Sherlock's tension rise a little as they exit the ICU.  "He'll be ok, they'll call if there are concerns."  John leaves the building first, and Sherlock steps to the kerb as if to summon a cab.  "We're walking," John asserts, takes Sherlock's elbow, and heads toward home.

"A cab would be quicker.  It's been a long day."

"Yes, and I know how you get.  I would like to burn off a bit of your energy before we get home."

"Why?"

"Because it might help us both _last a little longer_ than we might otherwise.  You're keyed up."  His voice is low, and his fingers, brush against Sherlock's.

"And that turns you on, doesn't it?"

John answers simply by angling his head and smiling.

There's a shared laugh, the quick reach of Sherlock's long arm quickly darting across John's zipper as they enter a shadowy area of the street, and John wonders about an alley they pass.  Sherlock mutters, "We could, but we shouldn't."

"How do you do that?"

"Oh, please.  Sometimes you're an open book."

"Hmm.  Do you know what's in my pocket?"

Sherlock guesses a male anatomical part, first, and John laughs.  After he guesses a revolver, and then a stolen police badge, John pulls Mycroft's mobile out of his pocket, holds it out.  Sherlock recognises it immediately.  John explains that he will return it tomorrow.  Sherlock nods, smirks, and offers, "You should drain the battery to 6% and then give it to him."

"Perfect idea, won't upset him at all."

"Stress test, of sorts?" Sherlock suggests.

"Not exactly the right timing for that."

They chat a bit, and soon Baker Street is before them.  They are barely in the door, closing it quietly, when Sherlock reaches for John's collar, hauls him tight and close.  Many hands find buttons and zippers, while mouths connect, tongues and teeth involved, tasting, nipping, sucking.  Clothing lands off-handedly at their feet, shirt, trousers, pants.  Neither of them pay it any attention.

"We should probably continue this..."

"Yes."  And Sherlock leads down the hallway, pounces as John crosses the bedroom in pursuit, and they end up awkwardly on the bed, hardness and angles and softly furred chest of golden hair against concave belly.  Things heat up, sweaty skin in contact with warm breath as they seek familiarity and comfort and teasing and pleasure.  John breaks apart abruptly, stretches a long arm toward the bottle of lube that they've long since given up putting away - too bloody inconvenient and disruptive - and hands it to Sherlock as he positions himself on all fours, looking back over his shoulder expectantly.  He is not disappointed, watching Sherlock's eyes darken with desire, a soft smile with undercurrents of full stop desire.

"Come on then," John encourages, leaning his hips back toward Sherlock's thighs as he flips open the bottle, applies it liberally to both himself and John.  There is a brief moment of seeking permission as Sherlock simply lines up his shaft with John's entrance, "Ready, _please_ ," John says quietly.  And the hot sliding sensation of being filled, stretched, very uncomfortable for just those few seconds of pain-pleasure-pain-pleasure-pleasure, then gorgeous filthy joining.  Sherlock's hand finds John's shaft as he begins to move in tandem, hand and body rocking and filling, stroking and pressing.  Gaspy breaths, a moan from John as pleasure mounts, followed by, incredibly, the increased swelling and hardness, John feels fullness and throbbing, then warm pulsations from within.  He comes moments after, the overwhelming spiral of tension climbing, climbing followed by blessed relief.  Sherlock manages, yet again, somehow having perfected the move, of staying wetly inside as he tucks John inside his arms and lowers them, a controlled descent to the mattress, pressing against his thigh and chest.  There they lay, Sherlock holding and touching, easing over sensitive nipple and hard hipbone.  John finally takes the curious wandering hand, clutches it to his chest, kissing knuckle as they lay, still joined for the short time until they relax, sleep imminent.

Both are exhausted, and the next awakening is to the usual alarm on John's mobile, beckoning them to wakefulness.

++

 Later that morning, after showering and at least one caffeinated beverage, Sherlock and John stroll over to the hospital.  Mycroft sees John, holds out his hand, silently appealing for the expected delivery.

"I haven't gotten report from the night nurse yet.  Did you behave?"

"Or were you a complete and utter twit like usual?" Sherlock finishes the question as John raises an eyebrow at him in threat.

The intensivist pokes his head in, speaks briefly with John updating on labs and plan of care for the day.  Once the echo is completed, he explained to the roomful of eager listeners, and the rest of the lab work is done, he would likely be cleared for discharge provided he is able to tolerate ambulation without symptoms.

Mycroft is ready, immediately, to swing his legs out of the bed and do as instructed.  John holds up a hand, "Not yet.  Typically cardiac rehab will be up to help you the first time.  They come early.  Let the nurses do what they need to before you escape down the hall."  He hands Mycroft the mobile, hoping to soften the scowl that has appeared.  

Sherlock adds, "And for God's sake, find something to cover up with before you go any farther.  Nobody wants to see _that_."

 While Mycroft chomps at the bit throughout the morning, driving them all crazy, the day actually unfolds without incident.  The echo is done, and function is down but not terribly so.  The cardiologist arrives to give the results, explaining to him about the stunned myocardium phenomenon, and that some ejection fraction will likely rebound.  He explained about lifestyle changes, collateral circulation being much less helpful in the younger population, and the need for pharmacotherapy upon discharge - aspirin, cholesterol-lowering med, blood pressure control, beta-blockers.  He tells him that his cholesterol is not terribly elevated, but that his triglycerides are sky high, likely a genetic component.  Sherlock cuts a quick glance to John, who nods slightly and tries to look reassuring.

Finally, he is given clearance to leave, the discharge paperwork, then stops back to the doorway.  "I'm not putting it on the orders, but under no circumstances are you to play charades."

Mycroft looks puzzled, levels a questioning look back at him, head angling in typical Mycroft gesture.

"Worst time ever to actually have a heart attack, while playing charades."  The doc clutches at his chest to demonstrate what he meant, then leaves the room.

 ++

Sherlock waits at the hospital to accompany Mycroft home, and his transportation arrives.  The paperwork is completed, questions answered, and Mycroft is becoming more quiet as his impatience grows at the length of time it takes.  John arrives just as Mycroft is being assisted into the wheelchair and fussing about the humiliation and ridiculousness of the ride.  He insists his own legs will suffice just fine, thank you, to carry him out the door.  The nurse on the floor clenches her teeth, says something about policy, and defers to the volunteer who will be escorting him to the kerb.  John waves as the trio leaves the unit, and he is pretty certain he can hear Mycroft whinging until the wheelchair is out of sight.  John hopes, after the task he'd set his admin assistant on, that Mycroft is amused by the small surprise that should be awaiting him at his home.

The ride home is quick.  Anthea is waiting at the door, holds it open as Mycroft enters the mansion as Sherlock sets the bag down.

"Flowers were just delivered," Anthea tells them.  There is a small bouquet, only a few big blooms, that has been delivered and is set on the table.  Mycroft picks up the card.  

"They're from Dr. Watson," he reads, extremely puzzled.

Sherlock grabs the card from his brother's hand and looks over at the table.  " _From John_?" Sherlock reads, increduously.  " _Flowers_?  What the hell?"

Sherlock finally gets a good look at it and stares.  Mycroft hasn't noticed, as he ponders heading to his office to open the computer up, or logging in to one of his satellite offices to check on things, except that he is distracted by Sherlock's face.  "What is it now?" he asks dryly.

Sherlock's smirk, that tell-tale half smile riddled with amusement and cynicism, draws Mycroft's attention to the flowers that Sherlock is staring at, and moments later sighs, "Oh my God, he's a lunatic."

The flower arrangement is tasteful, larger flowers in a sturdy ceramic base in neutral and casual colors with a few greens at the base.  However, upon further inspection, Mycroft finally notices that the flower centers are actually made of Nicoderm patches, Nicorette gum, a professional sample of lipitor, one piece of gourmet dark chocolate, and a small bottle of enteric-coated aspirin.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So, yeah, explanations about blood pressure and coronary perfusion, hopefully not too terribly boring. Very very important in patient teaching about taking medications regularly and why. 
> 
> TIMI-3 blood flow is one of the ways that the industry grades the improvement in blood flow after a coronary vessel is opened after a procedure or stent or thrombolysis.
> 
> Mycroft had his cardiac cath through the radial artery, which is much safer, less restrictive, and why he was able to move around so quickly after the procedure. Although groin access is still used, some institutions do 75-80% of their cath procedures radially.
> 
> Oh, and please cut down or quit smoking. There's a lot more fanfiction to be written and read... that should be enough proper motivation? <3
> 
> And yes, Of course John will ensure that Sherlock gets his lipid profile tested. Ah, another venipuncture story in the making - foreplay to these two characters?
> 
> Comments and kudos, if you liked it, or have suggestions, are greatly appreciated, encouraged, sought after, longed for, and happiness-inducing. And let me know please if I missed something!


End file.
